Gathering Faith
by Sahara Storm
Summary: [Oneshot, DeanSam] Sam knows the power of faith. And he's going to need all that he can get for himself, and his brother.


**Title: **Gathering Faith

**Fandom:** Supernatural

**Pairing: **Dean/Sam

**Rating:** PG

**Word Count:** 1,003

**Summary/Description:** Sam knows the power of faith. And he's going to need all that he can get for himself, and his brother.

**Warning/Spoilers:** Implied incest, though it's rather very subtle. Spoilers for a lot of Season 2, 2.01, 2.11 and 2.13 especially.

**A/N:** Yay, Supernatural fic! :D This show is my very favouritest new obsession, next to The Wire, and this fic has been itching at me for a week now. Takes place during 'Playthings'; assumes knowledge of information gathered in 'Houses of the Holy'. My way of exploring their relationship; the one thing I love to do with new characters. :D

**Disclaimer:** Epic Kripke's the man. Me? Not so much.

* * *

The floors of the old house are sturdy and firm, but creak noisily under Sam's knees. It would probably be more practical to stand, or perhaps sit on the bed, but Sam is nothing if not thorough, and somehow, it feels right this way. His breathing is an echo in the dusty, hollow room, and he thinks of his brother as he clasps his hands and closes his eyes.

Dean is asleep in the bed across the room; sprawled out like the mattress is his dominion. He's been asleep for about an hour, snoring lightly with his arm thrown across his face. After doing all the preliminary work around and about the creaky old inn, reading up on the previous deaths and finding out as much as they could about the history of the place, they'd gotten a bite to eat, and done a bit of exploring. Dean was all business and wisecracks as usual, but Sam couldn't seem to settle himself. Couldn't seem to put himself at ease.

He feels better now, with the hardness of the cool wooden floor pressing against his knees through his jeans and the comforting words running through his head. He doesn't know how to explain it, but he always feels better, by at least some small measure, when he prays. That is what it's supposed to do, right? Comfort, soothe, ease. He can't say this to Dean outright, but it's nice to have someone do the worrying for a while, to take this mess out of his hands, if only for a minute or so.

Sam prays.

He prays for three things consistently; sometimes more, never less. He prays for his mother and her soul, and as of late, he has added his father to the litany. He has lost them, but that does not mean he does not think about them; he thinks about them every single day. Secondly, he prays for their job, and its success; countless lives hang in the tentative balance of their influence, and he and Dean save a lot of those lives everyday. And now, when he is becoming less and less sure of who – _what_ – he is, he needs the extra assurance.

And lastly, Sam prays for Dean.

Dean would scoff at him if he ever finds out, Sam knows. Hell, if the Sam from five or six years ago could see him now, kneeling in the bedroom of an old mansion that habours a malignant spirit, fingers intertwined and resting near his knees, praying to God or whatever deities that be for the safety and well being of his big brother, he would probably laugh. Hard.

But then again, the Sam from five or fix years ago had no idea of the power of faith.

He finishes up quickly, like he always does, just in case Dean wakes up and sees him (he can't imagine what Dean would do or say, but it would probably involve a lot of scoffing, raised eyebrows and laughing). He crosses himself as he gets to his feet, and makes a quiet trek across to the bathroom. He slips off his boots, and his outer layers of clothing, getting ready to hit the sack. On a whim, as he makes his way back into the bedroom, he walks over to stand next to Dean's bed.

Dean is still snoring away obliviously, breaths coming heavy and hard. Sam almost smiles as he looks down at him; his stubbly chin and cheeks, his tousled hair, his rumpled clothing; he seems peaceful and fierce all at once.

Sam stares down at him. One of his knuckles brushes the corner of a sheet.

"You gotta protect me, Dean," he whispers into the deep and cold. His voice is soft, soft; he can barely hear himself. "And… more than that… you gotta protect yourself." He takes a deep breath that is, in theory, supposed to be cleansing. "From me."

Dean grunts, and turns a little, making the covers crinkle and whisper. He snores on.

Sam really does smile this time; it reaches his eyes. He continues to look down at his big brother. Not for the first time, a sense of duty swells in him.

Minutes pass, and the sheets rustle.

"A picture'll last longer," a sleepy voice rumbles from beneath Dean's arm, and suddenly there is a green eye peeking up at Sam. "I'll even autograph it for you."

Sam laughs, and promptly turns on his heel, and heads for his bed. His heart is thundering in his chest, and he doesn't know why.

"Screw you," he calls out, just loud enough to be heard.

Dean groans.

"No thanks. Everyone in this hotel already seems to think that we are." There is a pause, and then he moves his arm, baring the rest of his face to the dim light of the room. "Though if we were, _I'd_ be the one doing the screwing."

Sam is already under the covers; the last comment has him grinning what feels like miles wide.

"What'd I tell you, dude? _Overcompensation_."

"Shut up," Dean returns flippantly with a flash of white teeth. Sam can see him squinting in his direction even as he smiles. He turns onto his side, fully facing Sam. "What were you doing up, anyway?"

Sam looks away from the green gaze. His breathing slows as he turns onto his back, and faces the ceiling. He thinks about the current job, about the people living here, about the lives that have been lost and those that they could yet save. Thinks about what he needs to do.

"Sammy?" Dean props himself onto his elbow; there is some measure of concern in his voice now. Sam snaps himself out of it, and turns to face his brother.

"Nothing, nothing, it's nothing," he assures him. "I was just… gathering faith." He can see the question in Dean's eyes, but he doesn't acknowledge it; he turns back to the ceiling. The wooden boards above him are dark and sturdy. "Gathering faith."

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**A/N:** I'd be very happy to hear what you think.


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